


The Haunting at Woods End

by TheDoctorSmith



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa Halloween Week, Clexa Week 2017, Curses, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Halloween, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Romance, anne lister-inspiration, clexa au, clexahalloweenweek, ghost story, the canterville ghost-inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:12:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDoctorSmith/pseuds/TheDoctorSmith
Summary: For Clexa Halloween Week, my free day offering is a ghost story somewhat based upon Oscar Wilde's The Canterville Ghost.Clarke Griffin and her family have arrived from America to their new home on the gloomy Yorkshire moors, Woods End.  There's a funny smell about the place, a surly cook, an eccentric housekeeper, and no one can visit the second floor library.Oh, and there's a ghost, too.





	The Haunting at Woods End

December had just arrived and the snow had not yet deigned to fall as the Griffins took up residence at Woods End.

Located in the desolate Yorkshire moors and looking for all the world as if it was ready to sink into the bog, Woods End could not have been a more unlikely home for a youthful American family, lately arrived from New York state. Once a resplendent manor home in its heyday, more than two hundreds years previous, Woods End still maintained a somewhat ethereal air, though that might only be due to the ever-present mist that hung about its walls and poorly-maintained grounds. There were others reasons, of course, but this story has just begun and you, poor reader, will have to be patient. 

 

Jacob Griffin was a tall man with an amiable air who, nevertheless, appeared to have not one clue of the unhappiness of his family as they entered their new home. 

 

‘What is that _smell_?’ Aden Griffin, barely thirteen and incapable of wearing clothing that did not represent an athletic consortium, wrinkled his freckled nose at the invisible offender as he placed his bags at the foot of a wide-mouthed staircase. 

‘It’s an old house, Aden, we can’t expect it to smell like the inside of a Starbucks, now can we?’ 

Aden gave his father a sour look as his mother and sister entered, each carrying their own name-brand burdens. 

Clarke Griffin, the elder sibling, wore a near-permanent expression of near-permanent doubt that did nothing, so her mother always said - to improve her near-permanent dour disposition – or her posture. 

‘Wow, Aden, kinda smells like your old gym socks. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.’ 

‘Since when do you go around smelling Aden’s old gym socks, Clarke?’

 

The youngest Griffn beamed at his mother, whom he in no small way resembled. It fit since they were, after all, related.

‘It’s a manly smell, mom. All girls dig it.’

 

‘Not in this house, little man.’

All four Griffin heads snapped up sharply at the sound of the new voice: a tall woman in dark clothes with an even darker expression stood at the top of the staircase, holding, in one hand, a small hatchet and in her other hand - a blood-soaked rag. 

Before anyone could respond, the front door slammed violently against its hinges, and the Griffins each jumped in their skins and turned as one to see another woman, dressed in work clothes with muddy boots enter, brushing dead leaves from her shoulders. She spoke in a clipped, BBC accent that suggested her origins were somewhere due south (not that this crossed their minds in such a short space of time).

‘Sorry about that, I didn’t see you arrive. I’m Thompson, housekeeper…and, uh, groundskeeper on occasion. Welcome to Woods End.’ 

Taking quick, muddy strides toward the Griffins with a hand outstretched, Thompson smiled and, for a split second, the other woman on the stairs was forgotten. 

‘I’m Jacob, or Jake, if you like. This is my wife, Abby, our daughter, Clarke and that’s Aden for whom I apologise in advance.’ 

Thompson looked down at the sandy-haired teenager, whose attention flew back to the now-empty stairs. 

‘Who was that, then?’ 

‘Who was who?’

Aden pointed to where the angry-looking woman had been just moments before.

‘The other one, the crazy killer looking lady.’ 

Thompson sniffed and offered a dismissive wave. 

‘Oh, you’ve met Echo. She’s the cook. Don’t mind her surly theatrics. She wasn’t wanted as a child.’ 

 

A disembodied voice rang from further up the stairs:

_'I heard that.'_

 

Thompson shrugged her shoulders with a smile.

‘Oh, look, she heard me! _Will wonders never cease?_ Well, I’m sure you’d like to be getting on, so I will leave you to it…though I would advise that, for now, you avoid the second floor library. Echo is doing a bit of…maintenance. I’m certain she’ll be done soon and we’ll get supper ready.’ 

 

Before anyone could interact further, the housekeeper was gone again through the front door, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind her.

Stalking slowly toward the stairs, Clarke Griffin peered through the balustrade to wherever the so-called ‘cook’ had disappeared to.

‘Who the hell does library maintenance with a hatchet?’

 

Jake Griffin shrugged and reached for his wife’s bags.

‘The English, apparently.’ 

 

From somewhere above, the disembodied voice returned.

 

_I’m Irish, you galloping nitwit._

 

**

 

Their first night in their new home proved to be drama-free, save for the unsettling scraping noises as Echo continued her work in the library after dinner and for the sickly sweet smell that wafted through the entire house and refused to evaporate. 

 

‘It’s like grandma’s roses when they rotted that last summer, remember?’

 

Aden watched his sister unpack as he flapped a homemade fan around his head, seeking relief. 

 

Clarke made slow work of her bags, carefully unfolding or refolding each item before placing them in an old mahogany wardrobe.

On the bed she already laid out an assortment of thick sheaves of drawing paper, an assortment of expensive-looking art pens and pencils, an iPad, and a small jewelry box held shut by a tiny, gold padlock. 

‘It’s probably just must or dust or something. Like dad said, this house is old. We’d probably have to leave the windows open for three years to get the smell out.’

Aden pondered his sister’s serious expression with one of his own. 

 

‘Are you still mad at them?’ 

 

Clarke exhaled, loudly and sat heavily on the bed. 

‘Because they took me away from my school of choice, from my childhood friends, from the boy I wanted to marry one day? No, Aden. I’m not mad.’

 

Surprised at her defeated tone, and empty stare, Aden scratched his nose with his free hand and waved his fan gently beside her face. 

 

‘Hey, at least we’ve got each other.’

Giving him a withering glance, Clarke reached out to grab the fan, but Aden quickly slapped it behind his back.

 

‘Nah, get your own. Unless you want to pay me for it. I’m happy to take your money.’ 

 

‘Get lost, creep.’

Backing out of the room, slowly, Aden attempted a sympathetic look. 

 

‘Is that anyway to talk to your only sibling? Who only wants to help?’

 

A pillow found its way to his head.

 

‘Fine, you want to luxuriate in the smell of unholy death all night, be my guest.’

Clarke smiled a little as she watched her brother disappear out the door, traipsing down the squeaky corridor in his oversized trainers. 

Throwing herself backward on the bed, she let her smile fade and a few small tears emerge from the corners of her eyes. 

For a few moments she made no effort to move, might have even pretended to stop breathing – when a breeze so cold it made her bones ache - passed along her body. 

Bolting upright, she looked back and forth to both windows in the room: closed. Her bedroom door, however, was wide open and the breeze seemed to be emanating from the corridor. 

 

With curiosity gaining the better of her, she rose from the bed and followed the breeze to where it seemed to originate from – up to the shadowy third floor, past what looked like an unused maid’s room, straight into – a brick wall. 

Gently caressing the wall, seeking some crack in the façade, she had, for a moment, the sensation of a deep sadness overwhelm her. Laying her forehead against the cool brick, she closed her eyes and let herself think of all she had left behind: school, her friends, Finn. She tried to conjure their images, the hurt of their loss, but they faded as soon as they started. Whatever she felt for them seemed to pale in comparison to the deep, sadness beyond her touch and sight. An _old_ sadness that had long forgotten its name and its purpose but lingered, still – and would not be dismissed. 

Pressing her face to the wall, one ear, as if she could hear, she felt the brick grow warm, almost soft, as if she were leaning against someone, seeking an impossible comfort.

 

She was violently jarred from her reverie by a woman’s voice.

Behind her, Echo stood, holding a bucket filled with what Clarke hoped was soapy water.

 

‘Not one day here and you’ve gone and done it.’

 

Annoyed with the cook’s vagueness, Clarke turned to her, crossing her arms across her chest. 

‘Done _what_?’

 

Echo nodded toward the brick wall and began to walk away.

 

‘You’ve found Lexa.’

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, please let me know and I will be happy to continue. 
> 
> If you need a face for Thompson, look no further than her namesake, Emma (the actress, of course).


End file.
